


Fallen Kings

by missbluebonnet



Series: The Lovely Moons [9]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blind Character, Eventual Smut, F/M, Family Dynamics, Family Feels, Fluff, Found Family, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:15:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23813656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbluebonnet/pseuds/missbluebonnet
Summary: After you heal from the attack on Canto Bight, the Mandalorian flies you and the children back to Arvala-7.
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You
Series: The Lovely Moons [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1638400
Comments: 102
Kudos: 520





	1. Fallen Kings

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's been supporting this story. I am overwhelmed by your kindness and generosity!  
> I have taken liberties with Mandalorian lore and culture in this story, and I have combined it with some of what we know to be canon.
> 
> I hope you like it!

The first thing you think when you surface from the edge of dreaming is how comfortable you are. You are completely buried beneath a blanket and sheets, and when you reach out a hand across the top of the covers, you can feel a fur was added on top, too. It’s sinfully soft, and you let your fingers idly trace through the texture of it as your mind is slow to bloom back open.

Snoring softly, the baby is tucked beneath your chin, his ears keeping your neck warm where the tunic the Mandalorian is loaning you doesn’t quite cover your skin. Your other hand rests on his back, and you smile at the feeling of his tiny heart beating with your own.

Memories flicker along as you come to, and you remember a hot, desperate mouth pressing against your own that flushes your skin through. He’d kissed you until you were dizzy, until you couldn’t breathe for how he crowded you into the pillows like he might starve if he stopped. Your lips feel swollen from so much kissing, and your toes curl beneath the blankets. His hair had been thick between your fingers, just as soft as the fur that keeps the chill from you now, and you couldn’t imagine anything in the world feeling so lovely.

The baby coos quietly, and you can tell when he wakes up by the soft grunts he makes as he tries to push himself up. He sits back on your stomach, and you stroke his little nose with your finger. 

“Hello, sweet one,” you greet softly, voice raspy with sleep.

He flops forward, and you huff a laugh as he begins patting at your cheeks, then over the thick gauze covering your eyes. You pat his back with reassurance, smiling as he feels your face with tiny, three fingered hands.

“We slept a while, I think,” you say to him, rubbing his back as he moves those small fingers over the cotton curiously. You hold your breath, waiting for the smallest movement to cause pain. He was a child, after all, and you doubted he could do much damage. Your eyes had been swollen shut, though, and you had never felt pain like that before.

You sit up gingerly, pushing the heavy blankets aside, allowing your mind to catch up with your body. 

The Mandalorian _kissed_ you. More than that, he took off his helmet, a third time in your presence, and though both of you knew you would never see his face even if he wanted you to, you knew the gravity of such an action is world shifting. Now more than ever, you want to speak with him-not just about what had happened, but about everything. The children on the ship, the animal below deck, what happened on Cantonica.

_And where are you going now?_

When your feet touch the metal floor, you’re surprised to find yourself wearing socks. You didn’t recall putting them on, and you lift the baby up into your arms as you stand. It’s a pleasant feeling to have control over yourself again, even if you can’t see anything now. Whatever creams, balms, and salves the Togruta applied to your injuries took away not just the pain and discomfort, but it also left not even a slight soreness behind. 

Even your eyes feel better beneath the wrappings.

You shuffle on silent feet to the door, one hand out to feel for the button that allows you into the passage of the upper deck. You tilt your head when soft voices echo from down the hall, and the baby wiggles excitedly. Following the hushed noises, you creep along the wall and stop just by the cockpit’s doors that seem to be open.

“ _Kandosii_ , Venka. And this one?” There’s a short pause, followed quickly by the Mandalorian humming. “No, not quite. Try again.” 

“I can help.”

“Let him do it.”

After a moment, you hear Corde gasp and clap, and the Mandalorian chuckles. “ _Gar serim, ad’ika_. You both could fly starfighters one day.” 

“Have you flown one before?” Corde asks, and you can hear the quiet squeak of one of the co-pilot seats. She must be fidgeting. You’d need to get the Mandalorian to oil those chairs. 

The bounty hunter makes a noncommittal noise. “Various models.” 

“Do you have a favorite?”

“I prefer my own ship.”

Corde jumps down from the chair, and you can hear the way her little feet dance across the floor of the cockpit. “Do you think I could have a ship one day?” she asks, and you have to cover your mouth to keep from laughing. How long had they been hanging off of him? At this rate, you are surprised he isn’t a bundle of nerves for someone unused to human contact and communication. Before he can answer her, Corde chirps, “I want to have my own ship and take people away like you.”

“Ah-well-”

“Like you did with us.”

There’s a long moment where no one says anything. You wish you could see them, but you dare not make yourself known. For some reason, you feel as though the Mandalorian will not be as talkative with you present, and you hold your breath until he finally says, “I think you would do it better than I ever could.”

Corde is moving around the cockpit, again. Her voice carries and bounces with the freedom of a child whose cares have been lifted from her shoulders, and it makes you feel light. “Is that how you met her? Sha-Sharee?”

“ _Cyare_. And no, that’s not...she stays with me, here.”

“Why do you call her that?” Corde asks with no small amount of skepticism. “That’s not her name.”

The Mandalorian stands up, and you can hear his boots clicking against the metal flooring. He adjusts a lever of some kind, from the sounds he’s making on the other side of the wall. “I know her name,” he huffs defensively. “I just...it’s something people call each other, sometimes.”

“What does it mean?”

“Do you always ask so many questions?”

Corde quiets, and you imagine she must be thinking very hard about something. When she answers, her voice is smaller. “Am I in trouble?” she asks, and you think she’s hovering near the door, as if backing up.

“What? N-No, why would you be in trouble?” When she doesn’t reply, the Mandalorian repeats his question, and this time you can hear him frowning. “Why do you think you’re in trouble?”

“I got in trouble before,” she finally says, so quietly you almost don’t hear her. “But you’re-you’re nice, I thought…”

In your arms, the child’s ears lower as if he understands the fear and pain in the little girl’s voice, and you hug him tighter against you.

You can hear the Mandalorian’s boots slowly approaching the door now, and there’s a quiet brush of fabric where you think, perhaps, he’s kneeling to be closer to her height. “No one will ever hurt you again, _ad’ika_.” 

Corde whispers, “Do you promise?”

“ _Ori’haat,_ with my life.” 

There’s nothing but quiet sniffling, and you hold your breath, leaning your head against the cool wall and fighting down the tears choking your throat. You nearly jump out of your skin when you feel a small hand rest on your leg, and you hold your hand out to feel Venka take it, threading your fingers together. You swallow and let him lead you into the cockpit, and there’s a very quick shuffling sound, followed by Corde’s gasp, “Oh, the baby’s up!”

“You’re awake.” The Mandalorian’s voice is tender and pleased, and you offer him a small, unsure smile. Venka leads you wordlessly until you feel your leg brush the co-pilot chair. You sit cautiously, feeling the space with your hand before resting back.

“Thank you, sweet boy,” you tell him, and he squeezes your hand without letting go.

“Can we feed the baby? Is he hungry?” Corde asks, coming to stand in front of you and petting his head as if she’s afraid he’ll fall apart. 

“Oh, I’ll need to find where our supplies-”

“I showed them,” the Mandalorian says, suddenly much closer than you remember. 

You bite your lip and nod slowly. “Alright,” you let Corde pick the baby up from your lap, and she giggles when the child coos at her. “Just be careful, and don’t run.”

“I won’t!” she promises, and you hear her padding towards the doors. “Come on, Venka!”

The sound of their little feet makes you smile, even though you know their toes must be frozen on the cold floor of the ship. You’re about to mention you’ll need more fabric, or perhaps you could simply find a tailor or clothes shop in a market. The gentle touch of warm, bare fingers ghosting over your jaw draws your face upward. You feel the back of his hand, holding it there before pressing a gentle kiss to his palm.

“Good morning.”

“Evening,” he corrects, and you can hear his smile.

“How long have I been asleep?” 

“Last night and most of today.” You hear him shift, and by the space his voice occupies now, you know he’s kneeling in front of you. “You needed it, but now we should change those bandages.” You lift one hand up to touch, but his other hand grabs your wrist like a snake striking, holding it hostage. “Don’t. She told me to change it three times before it’ll be well enough, and you messing with it will make it worse.”

“My,” you breathe. “You’re awfully bossy today.”

He draws you close until you have to part your knees to make room for him, and he leans up to touch his helm to your brow. “I’ll be bossy until you’re well again,” he mutters, and you can’t help but smile, leaning against him. The two of you spend a moment to simply lean into each other, his hands resting on your arms, and yours lying comfortably at his waist. It feels natural, sweet even, after what you shared the night before.

“You’re good with them,” you whisper, moving your head to the side to rest your cheek against the fabric of his shoulder. His arms slip around your waist, hugging you firmly, and you sigh in contentment. He’s so warm. “I...I didn’t know you would bring them with us.”

The Mandalorian is quiet for a moment, his gloved fingers slowly rubbing tiny circles at your lower back. “D-Did you not want me to?” he asks, barely above a whisper.

You squeeze his waist with your knees, pressing your mouth to the fabric covering his neck. “I would not have left them there,” you murmur, feeling him relax further into your embrace. Your cheeks heat as your heart quickens, adding, “You are more dear to me because you didn’t.”

He gently pushes his helmet against your temple, brushing the cool beskar against your hairline, and you smile at the gesture of affection. It’s slight and subtle, like a shared glance across a room. He leans back, slowly standing, and says, “I’m going to unwrap your bandages. Stay very still.”

His hands are gentle as he begins unwinding the gauze from around your head, and you curl your fingers in your lap, waiting for the moment the pain will blindside you. When he peels the last of the cotton away, the cool air of the ship over your skin is refreshing, but then, nothing happens.

“W-What is it? Is something wrong?” you ask, keeping your eyes closed against your desire to do otherwise. 

“No, but…” You feel his fingers ghost over your cheek, and then he tilts your face with a crooked finger beneath your chin. “It’s healed. Not even a bruise.”

You open your eyes then, slowly and carefully, and you find that your vision is just as blurry as you remember. You can only see a faint shadow and the shine of the beskar, and you blink several times in surprise. 

“How do you feel?” he asks, his low baritone wavering with uncertainty. You let your fingers drift up to your temple, then beneath your lash line where the worst of the swelling was. It’s cool, smooth skin, just as you remember.

“I feel good,” you whisper, tilting your head toward him. “But I don’t understand. I thought you said it would take longer.”

He shifts forward on his knees, turning your head one way so he can inspect the stitches at your scalp. “That’s what she told me.” He goes still, suddenly, his thumb brushing over your jawline. His helmet tilts a minute amount, and he takes a deep breath through the vocoder. “The kid was with you, when you woke up?”

You nod, leaning your hands on your knees. He’s considering something and lets his hand drop away when tiny feet draw both of your attentions away from each other. Venka hesitates at the doors of the cockpit, and you smile at him, holding out your hand. When he approaches, you’re able to make out more than you were when he first brought you bread and wiped your face clean of blood.

Small even for a boy his age, he has a mop of soft dark curls, thick and wild, with large shadowed eyes. He holds a piece of paper between tiny hands that you notice are wrapped with gauze around his palms, and he holds the paper out to you.

“What’s this?”

It’s too blurry for you to make out, but you can see it’s a drawing. Venka leans against the side of your chair on tiptoes, attempting to look at it when you lay it in your lap.

“The kid drew it,” the Mandalorian says, and when you look up he’s leaning back in his chair, helmet directed out at the streaking silver sphere of hyperspace. A smile curves your lips, and you look back down at the paper, your thumb straightening a crinkled edge. Venka taps a small finger on the center, looking up at you with a tilt of his head. “The morning you went out.”

“Oh.” The Mandalorian turns to look at you and the small boy by your knee. Leaning back, he folds his hands over his belt and crosses one of his boots over his knee.

“It’s a constellation, like an instrument with strings.” He taps his fingers restlessly over his belt for a moment before turning in his chair suddenly, surprising you. His gloved fingers tap quickly over a datapad, and he only turns back when a small, blue hued projection appears.

Now you can see it. Venka gasps softly beside you, and you both stare in wonder at the digital recreation of the arrangement of twinkling stars.

“The Mando’ade believe that all the stars are fallen kings of the past that guide the honorable,” he murmurs, his voice sounding almost sad, you think. Your face softens as you listen, and you lean your chin in your hand, watching the blue and silver stars blink and glow. “ _Ka’ra_. When a child of Mandalore falls, the stars burn brightest in their tribute.”

Venka traces his finger over the image on your lap, and you smile softly at him, looking up at the Mandalorian. “How would the child know to draw something like this?” you ask, letting the little boy take the paper.

“Because he’s seen me draw it,” he murmurs, closing the datapad with a swipe of his finger. He sets it aside, and you watch him carefully, seeing the slight hunch in his shoulders and hearing the crack in his voice. 

Turning your head toward the little boy, you pat his hair affectionately and murmur, “Go find your sister.” You can hear him sigh, as if he knows something heavy hangs in the air that is not for him, and you listen to him leave the room before you move to kneel beside the pilot’s chair. You lay your hand on the cool steel of the cuirasse covering the Mandalorian’s thigh, and you watch the tell-tale gleam of his helmet beneath the streaking starlight.

You rest on your knees, waiting to see if he has more to share with you. When he lifts his hand, removing his glove to touch the crown of your head, you offer him a small smile, and he murmurs, “Some say the instrument was flung into the sky by a musician whose love was more beautiful than any music he could create,” he leans his head back, and you can see the bob of the apple in his throat beneath his shirt when he swallows. “It was my mother’s favorite story.”

 _Was_. You are wise enough to know, underneath the words and silence and the gentle touch in your hair what doesn’t need to be said. Your eyes drift down to his chest plate, which almost seems like a black hole in the shadows of the cockpit, and you reach up, cupping his wrist where he cradles your head. You expect to be able to linger in this quiet, in the fragile stillness that comes with shared grief. 

“Did you know you’re named after it?” You lift your head up, a gentle curve to your brow. His fingers slip to your scalp, tracing down to the back of your neck and bringing a sweetened chill over your body. “Those stars. You share its name.”

Your heart aches for him, then, because whether or not you can see him, whether or not he’s fully armored or completely bare, you can hear his world weary, bone-deep sorrow in that moment. Perhaps it has been passed down from the beast taming kings whose honor he shoulders, or perhaps he hides a frightened child beneath a chest of steel. You slip your hands onto the rests of the pilot’s chair, moving with deliberate and thoughtful care until you’re seated upon his lap. The position might have left you feeling awkward, even silly, if he didn’t immediately lean back, eager to accept you. His breathing is audible, now, and your hands cup the arches of his helmet, allowing you to lift the bottom of his helm slowly upward.

His gloves find their place on your body, one upon your knee and the other on your waist, and you bare his face up to his nose, just enough allowance for you to brush your lips softly against his mouth.

You had thought you dreamed the sweetness you had tasted from him the night before, the tender trembling that had only been calmed when he pressed close to you. His fingers curl, gently pulling you in at your knee, cupping the curve of your waist and spanning his hand for more. He parts his lips beneath your own, and that familiar tightness in your belly begins to warm you from the inside out. There is no stubble on his chin and jaw, now, though you can feel a little scrape of facial hair above his lip that makes you smile with ticklishness.

“ _Ner cyra’ika_ ,” he breathes, and you brush both thumbs along both his cheeks before letting his helm lower back down to cover his face. You lean your brow to his, smiling.

“One day, you must tell me what all these names mean,” you murmur, lowering your hands to his shoulders. They rise and fall as he breathes deeply, allowing his ghosts to leave the two of you in peace for now. “I would like to speak your language.”

His hands flex against the curve of your knee, the plush slope of your middle, and the heat within you stokes. “You would like to learn my tongue?” he chuckles, seeming delighted as your face blooms pink.

“Don’t tease me,” you whisper, squeezing his shoulders. You press your thumbs into the thick muscle there, earning a full bodied shiver from the man beneath you. “I’m sincere.” 

He leans his helmet back against the pilot’s chair, regarding you through the shined visor. You try to hold what you hope must be his gaze, though your sightless eyes never seem to be able to follow along just so. 

“And do you wish to be a Mandalorian? To take the Creed and hide your face?”

You ignore his cryptic tone and cock your head to the side. “I would certainly bruise less.”

He suddenly bounces his knees, earning a sharp yelp of surprise from you. “Now I’m the one being sincere.”

You flash him a helpless grin, letting your hands slide down to his elbows. “I do not think I could ever make a tolerable Mandalorian. I’m not strong enough,” you confess, crossing your ankles. “But as part of your clan, I would like to honor it.”

The Mandalorian straightens in his chair, and you lean against him, drawing one arm to hang on his shoulder and propping your head upon your fist. “There is more than physical strength in a warrior,” he says quietly, his voice rasping in that lovely tremble you’ve grown fonder of. “We call it _mirjahaal_. The strength of the mind and heart, and it is just as important and useful a weapon as your body is in war.” 

“You...think that of me?” you whisper, eyes widening and your heart beating with a heavy, aching pace in your breast. You had never thought yourself strong. You possessed more evidence to the contrary, in fact, but when the Mandalorian said it, it sounded so true that you were left bereft of fight. 

He rests the ear of his helmet against your arm, and you feel him inhale deeply before relaxing against you. “I will not believe anything less, _Mesh’la_.”

An alarm sets off, flashing green from the console, and you gently extract yourself as he turns in his chair to turn it off. “We’ll be dropping out of hyperdrive, soon.”

“Where are we going?” you ask, moving towards the cockpit doors. Now that you had your meager vision back, you felt steadier on your feet.

“Arvala-7.” 

You perked up, spinning around just as the children appeared from the end of the passageway. “Kuiil’s home?”

The Mandalorian turns to look at you now. “You remember,” he says, sounding pleased.

You laugh when the baby huffs and puffs, running toward your ankles at full speed as fast as his little legs can manage. You pick him up, smiling when he coos in happiness, and cradle him in your arms. “Of course I remember. He is your friend,” you say, ushering the two siblings into the chair you’ve just vacated. The Mandalorian watches as you help them fasten the belt of the chair across their laps. It’s only meant for an adult, but they’re small enough that they fit snugly. 

“Associate.” 

“I’ve seen married couples with less rapport than you and Kuiil,” you throw back at him, to which he only grunts and turns back around to face the controls. You smirk, shifting the child’s makeshift cradle from the other seat to sit with him in your lap. “And why the visit?”

“I have a sick fathier in my cargo hold, and I need someone to take care of it.”

Your eyes widen in understanding, glancing in the direction of the other two children who swing their feet happily from their co-pilot’s chair. 

“I don’t know if-”

“Hold on,” the bounty hunter chuckles, and all of you seem to yelp at the same time, slamming forward from hyperdrive and pitching over the familiar planet. Both children beside you laugh and clap their hands, and even the baby in your arms giggles. You narrow your eyes at the back of the Mandalorian’s blurry shape, knowing without a doubt he was showing off, but you don’t find it in yourself to be anything other than amused. 

So much for a fearsome, cold bounty hunter, you think.

When the ship lands, the Mandalorian takes care of post-flight checks, and you pack a small bag with a change of clothes, some medicine and food, and the child’s stuffed bantha. When you emerge from the chilly captain’s quarters and enter the hull, the captain in question has offloaded the large animal from the holding partition, helping the two children on top of it. That takes care of your worry that their bare feet would be without protection.

The floppy eared infant floats beside you in his pram, giggling when the Mandalorian touches a tiny finger to his brow. You take his other arm, grateful when you can begin to walk with his assistance over the rocky terrain.

“You don’t think Kuiil has enough to do?” you ask, slightly worried as you hear the grunts and clops of the animal that follows behind you. From the looks of it, the creature seems to be more of a responsibility than a gift. “With all the bluurgs, I don’t know-”

“The animal is sick,” the Mandalorian tells you quietly, and you realize that he keeps his voice low so the children behind you won’t hear him. “It has welts that I think are infected. If someone doesn’t do something, it’ll die or need to be put down.”

“Oh.”

“It was left alone in the stables. My guess is they didn’t want to spend the money to get it healthy. You’d be surprised how much one can go for, even sickly or otherwise,” he mutters, an undertone of darkness you’d only heard once before. When there’d been a gun to your head.

“No,” you murmur, watching as the familiar outline of Kuiil’s moisture farm comes into view against the dying sunlight. “I don’t think that I would.”

The Ugnaught in question is outside his hut when you approach. You can hear the loud noises of metalwork echoing from his workbench, and when he turns to face you, he dusts off his gloves.

“Why is it every time we meet, you have more recruits?” he asks, his familiar, rough brogue a source of joy for you. You don’t miss the heavy, irritated sigh coming from the armored man beside you.

You let go of the Mandalorian quickly and cross the rest of the way on your own, unable to keep your smile hidden. “It’s so nice to see you again, Kuiil,” you murmurs, beaming when he takes both of your hands in his way of greeting.

“And to you, my girl,” he rumbles, and you think you see him smile in the dim lighting. He turns toward the floating pram that seems to stay within your orbit, and he touches the child’s forehead with affection. “It is good to see you and the little one in such good health.”

“I’m afraid it can’t be said for all of us,” you murmur, turning toward the animal that folds its legs in to sit heavily on the ground. The bluurgs in their pen shuffle anxiously, and you wring your hands together as the Ugnaught crosses to size up the creature. The Mandalorian rests his gloved hands on his belt, standing beside you as his “associate” takes a turn around the large creature, petting the animal’s hide and muttering to it soothingly. 

“Is this yours?” he growls up at Corde and Venka, the former who giggles. He nods to himself, turning to face you and the bounty hunter with a firm nod. “I will help this one.”

“It’s yours, if you want it,” the Mandalorian tells him.

Kuiil looks back at the beast, who rests its head on the ground wearily. Venka pats its ears soothingly. “A generous gift that I cannot accept,” the Ugnaught grunts.

“At least if you keep it,” you say softly. “We would know it would be treated kindly.”

You see the gleam of beskar out of your periphery when the Mandalorian looks at you, and you bite your lip as Kuiil considers your words. He steps up to the side of the animal and holds out his hands. The children immediately slip off into his arms, one by one, staying away just far enough that anyone watching would know they were not entirely comfortable yet.

“I will do this,” Kuiil mutters, turning to face you and the Mandalorian once more. “And you are welcome here, as my guests.” 

The bounty hunter takes a step forward, hesitation in his voice. “Really, you don’t need to do that.”

But you hide your smile, already knowing the toughened Ugnaught will not be told what to do. 

“I have spoken.”


	2. Of the Mudhorn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Kuiil takes care to save the life of the wounded fathier, you and the Mandalorian care for the foundlings in the desert, and you learn the secret of the child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much to everyone who has read and left comments. I cannot believe how this story has grown so exponentially!  
> It could not have happened with your support.
> 
> I am currently planning another PP character story. I'm not sure when it'll be published, but I may be posting a preview of it sometime in the near future on my tumblr!

Recovering from your injuries has kept you asleep for a day and a half, so you’re not remotely tired when Kuiil offers you, once again, the use of his sleeping quarters. He had prepared a humble meal for you and the two children, and the Mandalorian sat quietly across from the table, one boot resting on his knee as he helps the petal eared infant in his lap drink bantha milk from a small clay cup. The Ugnaught speaks of the peace that had come to the valley, the steady work of his moisture farm, and the temperament of the bluurgs while you fill yourself on warm food and safety.

You stand to clean the table, grateful that he has lit several lanterns in the spacious living quarters so you can see better. When you gather the dishes, you don’t miss the way the two siblings yawn, sinking their elbows onto the table, but what surprises you most is the sudden jerk of the Mandalorian’s helmet when his head begins to nosedive forward.

Rounding the table, you gently extract the baby from his arms and smile softly when his visor tilts up toward you. Laying a cloth over your shoulder, you pat the child’s back with firm thumps and whisper, “Why don’t you take the bed? I’m not going to sleep for a time.”

When he doesn’t even put up an argument, you know he’s exhausted his physical limitations. He pushes himself to stand with a weary exhale from deep within his chest, and he practically drags himself to the back of the tent. He pauses as you turn away, and you hear his deep baritone rumble, “Come on.”

Corde and Venka slip from their seats at the table, gratefully falling in line behind the bounty hunter and rubbing their eyes with chubby fists. You smile when their familiar shadows disappear behind the thick curtain partition, and you smother a laugh to hear the baby on your shoulder belch and giggle triumphantly.

“I will tend the fathier, now. You are welcome to join me,” Kuiil says with a shrewd look, and you slide the baby comfortably into the crook of your arm, letting your free hand rest upon the Uganaught’s shoulder. He leads you outside, across the small yard to the bluurg’s pen. He shows you the stool by his workbench, and you set the child on the ground to toddle near your feet, enjoying the cool desert breeze while Kuiil begins sorting through husbandry supplies. “Will you tell me where this creature came from, and the children, or will I be left to guess?”

“I would be surprised if you couldn’t,” you say, smiling when he snorts and sets himself to work. The animal seems too spent to be able to fight or fuss under the handling of the Uganaught’s care, and you begin to tell the tale of everything that had happened after your last visit to Avarla-7.

Kuiil is an adept listener, sharing that quality with the Mandalorian. He doesn’t interrupt you, and he only makes affirming noises to assure you he is listening while he washes, tends, and treats the animal’s wounds. When you get to the story of Canto Bight, of your time in the stables, he returns to the workbench to remove his gloves and sit across from you. 

“The children have burns on their hands, from what I suspect are brands. This is not uncommon in slave trade,” Kuiil says, and if he sees your face drain of color, if he notices the trembling that takes over your hands, he is too polite to comment on it. “I suspect, had the Mandalorian not come, you would wear a matching set.”

“Part of me will never let go of the guilt that he came back,” you confess, lowering your voice, and your chin to look down at your hands that were pristine beneath the lamplight. “So much could have gone wrong.”

“And do you think the small comfort you might have achieved would compare to the loss the Mandalorian would have taken?” 

Kuiil has never spoken to you unkindly, but the terse, unforgiving growl makes you feel rather sick. You turn your eyes toward the child that is currently hopping after a toad that is nearly as big as he is, and you bite your lip. “I-I don’t know.” 

“I do. And I suspect he does, as well.”

You watch the dim shape of the child at play, his world once again tilted decidedly in his favor without any knowledge of the hungry eyes following him from every corner of the galaxy. For something so small, so pure of heart, it overwhelms you, this knowledge that there is evil in the universe searching to snuff his little life out. Your hands curl in your lap, and you only realize you are gritting your teeth when your jaw begins to ache.

“I thought, when I first came here, that I was being traded a life of servitude for honest work,” you whisper, your voice beginning to choke with the tightness of contrition. A tear pearls in your eye, and when it falls to land upon your dress, the little child turns to look up at you as if he heard its descent. “I feel as if I somehow unwittingly cheated the universe. That one day the Maker will look down, see the excess of my happiness, and take it all back.”

The sounds of the frogs and insects and the quiet stream of the wind in the air is all there is to hear between two former slaves, for you know that Kuiil knows your fear first hand. There is nothing he can say, wise or brazen, that will ever quell the haunting in your heart of being a stranger without the yolk of servitude. 

“Perhaps, your reward is great because you have saved two more souls from the worries you yourself now carry,” Kuiil grouses, looking down at his workbench and beginning again the task of organizing it. You turn your pale eyes towards him as he begins sorting through parts, fishing out a dirty rag to wipe the workspace down with. “And should the Maker find fault in that, I would no longer wish to know them.” 

The child toddles up to you, gently hugging your ankle and pressing his face into the fabric of your dress. You lift him up into your arms, kissing his nose before pressing your brow to his. Six little fingers touch your cheeks, and you sniffle and smile. You stand slowly, the Ugnaught’s words going round and round in your head.

“Thank you, Kuiil. For everything.” 

He says nothing, and you sit quietly until the sky nearly begins to lighten on the horizon. You turn towards the tent, the child nuzzling against your chest and yawning sweetly. You step quietly, slipping your boots off near the door and hunching down as you part the partition back. Upon the bed, the Mandalorian is flat on his back dressed in full armor, snoring quietly through his helmet, which weighs his neck down at an odd angle. Corde is asleep beneath his arm, hugging his middle and burying her face into the fabric of his shirt. Venka is curled at the foot of the bed, and you cover your lips to keep from laughing at the sight. Tucking the child into his pram, you gently nudge it so it floats silently beside the bed, and turn to the mess of bodies you now face.

You gently begin to situate the small boy, lifting his head to slip a folded blanket beneath his cheek to serve as a pillow. Next, you remove the Mandalorian’s boots, taking care with every buckle and tie so you can set them quietly on the ground. Just as you brush Corde’s hair from her warm cheek, a gloved hand grabs your wrist on instinct.

“It’s still early,” you murmur, lowering yourself so you perch on the edge of the bed by his hip, feeling the strength give in his fingers where he holds you. “Go back to sleep.” 

His hand falls back onto the bed, and just like that, he’s out once again. You smile, gently laying down beside him, heat flushing your face at being so close. You’re on the edge of the cot itself, and you can’t help but remember his words from the hotel room when he took the space nearest the door. Your head pillows on his bicep, but you can’t be more comfortable than you are in that moment. You expect to be by yourself when you wake up, as is common with the bounty hunter you’ve grown to know and share your space with, but when next you open your eyes, there is an early morning light streaming through the hut’s meshing that catches on the beskar vambrace draping over your abdomen. 

Quiet breathing through the vocoder is nestled in your hair that’s strewn across the pillow, and when you shift just slightly, you realize that someone has covered both of you with a blanket. The light is enough for you to see that neither child that had been asleep the night before remains where you left them, and when you look at the pram and the open shutters, it also sits empty.

Raising a hand to your forehead, you slowly sit up, fighting a yawn, before gently moving the dead weight of the arm pinning you down. There’s a muffled snort from under the helmet sinking back into the pillow, and his hand flexes on top of the blanket. 

“Mphf-what’re you doing?” His voice is a rasp, scratchy and rough with sleep, and you wonder if he rested at all while you were recovering. You lay a hand on his arm soothingly, rubbing your thumb in circles. His voice is almost a plea, “Lay...lay back down.”

A smile dances at the corners of your mouth, and you whisper, “All the children are gone.” The utterly unimpressed grunt from under the helmet tells you exactly what the Mandalorian thinks of that, and your grin widens. “Sleep more if you like, but I would feel guilty leaving our host alone to mind all three of them.”

“As if they’d slow him down,” he mutters, but you feel him sit up behind you as you let your feet drop to the floor. You let your world settle upright, your balance and wakefulness coming together as the chill of the desert is chased away by the sun.

A gentle pressure between your shoulders inclines your head to turn, finding the Mandalorian pressing his helmet ponderously against your back. 

“Really, you can keep sleeping,” you whisper, your heart aching at the sound of such a deep sigh.

His helmet angles to the side, and you feel his vambrace tuck beneath your breasts as his arm wraps around your waist, pulling you backwards against him. Your head falls back into the crook of his neck and shoulder, and for a moment, you let yourself go limp, enjoying being handled.

“A tempting offer,” the rough baritone rumbles quietly. “But will you make it worth my while?”

Instinctively, your legs press together at the same time your lips part to breathe. Your heart begins to pound, heavy and fervent when his other gloved hand comes up to cup the front of your throat. There’s only the barest tease of pressure, and you know he can feel how your pulse is singing beneath the leather of his glove. Your own hands fall, resting firmly on his thighs that crowd either side of you, and you swallow hard.

Your breath rattles in your throat, and you lick your lips, turning your face toward his helmet that presses gently to your temple. “I...I don’t have anything to offer.”

His hum is laced with the static of his modulator, and you feel it deep in your belly. His arm around your waist tightens, and you bite your lip near enough to bleed when he drags you back  _ hard _ against his body, leaving not even air between you.

“Don’t underestimate yourself,  _ ner Mesh’la _ .” His voice is a growl now, so quiet that you can only hear it from beneath the helmet, and your entire body shivers when the beskar nuzzles your jaw, just beneath your ear. “You could have me on my knees, if you wished.”

You open your mouth, whether to whisper a plea to continue or beg him to stop, but both of your attentions draw to the giggling coo near the partition of the sleeping quarters.

The child stares up at the both of you, large, dark eyes blinking sweetly, and one hand drags his stuffed bantha behind him on the ground. You can’t help the laugh that escapes you, and you feel a warm flush when you can feel the Mandalorian’s own chuckle in his chest at your back. His arms fall away from you, and you push yourself from him and the bed to stand up. Immediately, the child toddles at full speed toward you, huffing excitedly and waving his free hand upward. 

Leaning down, you lift the infant up into your arms, and he drops his toy in deference to being up high, immediately grabbing tiny fistfulls of your hair in his fists. The Mandalorian moves around the small space, and you blow sweet kisses into the baby’s face until he falls forward, pressing his open mouth against your chin and gurgling happily. 

“He missed you,” the Mandalorian says, his voice quiet as he sits to put his boots on. You tilt your head toward the child, bumping foreheads with him and smiling when he tries to kiss your nose next. He achieves biting the tip and grinning up at you proudly. The warrior’s voice catches when he says, “I didn’t think he would stop crying.”

Your heart sinks, and your smile falls, looking down at the little one in your arms to his father who busies himself with the ties of his boots. His view changes when you step between his feet, and he looks up at you through his visor. You think you can see his throat shift when he swallows.

“You’re a good father, you know,” you murmur, one hand drifting to cup the chiseled arch of one side of his helmet. You hear him exhale, his breath shaking when you smile. “Whether I’m here or not.”

His glove comes up to cup the back of your hand. You linger a moment before you turn and duck from behind the partition, carrying the child through the modest living quarters. You know your hair is tangled and your dress is wrinkled, but you step into your boots and begin preparing a small meal for the baby that hangs in the crook of one elbow. You want to give the Mandalorian privacy to eat or drink before you take up more space and time in the tent. The sun is shining bright, and when you step outside, you can hear Corde giggling from somewhere in the distance near the blurrg pen.

You sit at the workbench on the same stool you occupied the night before, leaning the child back so he could hold the little cup full of cold bantha milk comfortably and feed in the shade. Heavy footfalls bring your face up, and you smile at the blurry shape of your host.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Kuiil greets, picking up a tool from the bench in front of you. He seems to linger over the child, who blinks owlishly at him. “He’s eating more these days.”

“He is,” you agree, patting the child’s tummy with affection. “I think he must be going through a growth spurt.” 

“Perhaps it is from his power,” Kuiil ruminates, rounding the workbench to the other side.

This draws your attention, and you blink slowly. “W-What power?”

Kuiil pauses, looking across the bench at you with a hard frown, his bushy brows lowering in confusion. “You do not know? The Mandalorian did not...tell you?” he demands gruffly, and you’re left feeling not unlike a fish, your mouth opening and closing helplessly. “Did he not speak of the mudhorn?”

You wrack your brain for any detail you may have missed from the story you’ve grown so fondly of thinking about, but you can’t recall anything about the child. He had simply told you the child had been present when a mudhorn was defeated.

Kuiil seems to interpret this misinformation from your face and throws the tool down so noisily, the child jumps and nearly drops the cup he drinks from. The Uganaught storms off toward the tent, and you flush with worry, sure you’ve just opened a door that was meant to stay closed. You heave a sigh, looking down at the little one you cradle, sighing, “I think I got your father in trouble. What could he be talking about, hm?”

The baby simply blinks up at you, his eyes falling slowly with drowsiness, and you can’t help the smile on your face. Movement out of your periphery draws your eye, and you see the Mandalorian stomping out of the tent, Venka trailing meekly behind him. The bounty hunter collapses near a small fire pit, his rifle across his knees with a cloth. The little boy sits near him, and Kuiil emerges a moment later, huffing up to you.

“That man is more muscle than sense, at times,” he growls at you, to which you blush and bite down a grin. “So I shall tell you the tale.” 

Just as he had listened to your story the night before, you spend the entirety of his recollection sitting quietly and attentively. You only move to set the empty cup aside when the child has finished his meal, lifting him to your shoulder to burp him. Kuiil pauses to offer you a cleaning cloth, and you grow still when he describes the Mandalorian’s experience with the mudhorn.

“I...I don’t understand,” you murmur, looking down at the little one who’s nuzzling against your neck sleepily. “How is that possible?”

“I have heard stories, myself,” Kuiil rumbles, watching the little one dozing against you. “But they are not answers. I do not know what is true, but I do know that the Mandalorian would not lie about this young one.”

You lay one hand against the child’s back, feeling him breathe softly and curl against you for warmth. It doesn’t seem real, like something out of a dream, but it begins to fall into place with what you do know. 

Why would the Empire seek out such a small innocent without something to gain? Something beyond what you could ever know. What does surprise you is how you feel no difference for the little one you cradle near your heart. He is still the same, sweet being you had given your heart to, and you press a kiss to his brow. 

“I’m going to lay him down,” you murmur, standing and crossing the yard to the hut. You can feel eyes on you, following your every movement, but your focus is on the child you tuck into the pram waiting inside the tent. You leave the shutters open, in case he cries or wakes up to find you, and you arrange the blanket so it keeps out any unwanted chill. 

Now with the sleeping quarters free, you take a moment to undress and change your clothes, sighing in relief at the feeling of clean, unrumpled fabric against your skin. You work the tangles out of your hair with a brush from your bag, and you splash cold water on your face from the faucet, taking care not to use too much. 

As you dry your face, you can hear a quiet, rasping voice just outside the tent.

“ _ Kandosii _ ,” the Mandalorian praises, and you step close to the edge of the tent by the door to listen. “Again.”

There’s a long stretch of silence, and you frown, wondering if you perhaps can’t hear as well as you think you do. When you peek around the edge of the door, you can see Venka leaning close to the Mandalorian by the fire pit, but you can’t make out anything that they’re doing. You step outside, trying to keep your feet light, but both of them look up as you approach. 

When they lean away, there is nothing you can see, save for some scratchings on the ground in the rocky sand. The rifle still rests across the Mandalorian’s knees, the barrel pointing away from the boy.

“What are you two doing?”

You kneel down beside Venka, one hand brushing the boy’s shoulder companionably. He turns his face, still round with baby fat, towards the Mandalorian who nods encouragingly to him.

Venka reaches towards you and takes your hand, and you watch him curiously as he turns your palm upward. He uses one finger and begins tapping your palm in an uneven, stilted rhythm. You blink, glancing from his blurry outline to the Mandalorian’s shadow, which looks on silently.

The tapping stops abruptly, and Venka’s hands fall to his knees, now turning back to the warrior with the eagerness of a student. The gleaming visor nods once in approval, and the boy  _ beams _ .

“I...I don’t understand,” you laugh softly, curling your fingers where they still hover upwards.

“It is called  _ Dadita _ ,” the Mandalorian explains, standing up with a ponderous sigh and rounding the fire pit to stand beside you. He uses the pronged barrel of his rifle to begin making long dashes and shorter nicks in the earth. “Every dash and beat represents a letter in Basic Galactic. It is a code we use in battle, to disguise messages so enemies cannot decipher our intentions.”

Your furrowed brows slowly lift up with understanding, and Venka takes your hand again, quickly tapping against your palm. The look of pure joy on the little boy’s face brings tears to your eyes, watching him tap earnestly to communicate with you. To speak and to be understood after so long of having no voice

The Mandalorian takes a knee beside you, watching as the boy taps his message quickly.

“What is he saying?” you ask softly, a tear slipping down your cheek.

“‘I love my sister. We are happy.’” 

Your hand not held by the child covers your mouth, more tears falling when you close your eyes. Venka holds your hand with both of his now, looking worriedly between you and the Mandalorian, and you feel a warm, gloved hand resting on your shoulder. He nods at the little boy once, and Venka stands up and wraps his arms around your neck. You gather him close, hugging him tightly, and cup the back of his head. He seems content to be held, so you embrace him until your tears dry salty tracks on your cheeks before you kiss his mop of fluffy curls. 

“You will have to teach us all how to speak it,” you whisper, turning to face the Mandalorian. His visor bows silently in agreement, and you pet the boy’s hair back into place where you’d mussed it. “Go on, don’t-don’t worry about me.” 

Venka hesitates, glancing between you both before running off towards Kuiil where he’s welding at his workbench. You sit beside the armored warrior silently, eyes closed and breathing deeply. You feel something shift within you that you had thought was unmovable, and now you can’t imagine what to do with yourself without those surrounding you.

“Why...why didn’t you tell me about the child?” you ask, your voice half a croak from the tears clogging your throat. You feel the Mandalorian sigh even though you can’t hear it. “About what he did? What he can do?”

The Mandalorian looks down at the rocky stand you both kneel in, resting the butt of his rifle on the ground and leaning on it. He’s quiet for such a long time, you wonder if he’s going to ignore your question, but you also know for someone who speaks so rarely, he chooses his words carefully.

Finally, he whispers, “I was...afraid you would leave, if you knew.”

Whatever you were prepared for him to say, it was not this.

“What?” you breathe, eyes widening. You hear the man beneath the armor let out a deep groan, and he lets his helmet fall forward against his rifle, as if in pain. You sit forward, grabbing the lip of his helmet and pulling his visor around to face you. He tenses immediately, and you blink the tears from your lashes. “Tell me, p-please.”

He lets out a strangled, quiet noise that’s near a whimper, and his hand not holding his rifle gently wraps around your wrist. “I was afraid you would leave if you knew how dangerous it was to...to be close to him. To us.” There’s a heavy, loaded silence for a brief moment before he whispers over the strain of his leather glove that tightens around his gun, “I-I don’t think we can go back to that,  _ Cyare _ . I don’t think I can.”

With the firm grip on his helmet, you draw him down to you, pressing his helmet to your forehead, and you whisper, “You will never have to.”

The  _ Dadita _ lessons begin the next day, when the sun is bright in the morning without hurting your eyes. You think he must have prepared for it, as you direct Venka how to wash the dishes from breakfast when he walks back into the hut carrying the drooling infant in one arm, asking the three of you to come outside when you’re finished. 

You barely have Corde’s hair brushed before the two children are dragging you outside. The Mandalorian stands near the barn where the bluurgs are chomping upon great swaths of desert flora and vegetation, and the baby toddles after a rogue frog hopping about in the shade, giggling in its chase. 

His amban rifle rests in the crook of his arm, the barrel opened at the end where it hangs from his elbow showing plain for you and anyone else that it isn’t loaded. He uses the pronged tip of the barrel to draw in the sand the markings for every letter in Galactic Basic, only stepping away when Kuiil asks for his assistance with a task or chore. 

The code itself is not hard for you to master, but understanding it being spoken back to you is the true challenge. Venka picks it up with ease, tapping in your palm with rapid fire fluency. You huff, amusement and exasperation coloring your face as you shake your head.

“You are too clever by half for me,” you tell him, trapping his hand in yours and tickling his side. He wheezes, dancing away before coming back to you. “Alright, then, slower this time.”

Kuiil takes a break from farm work with you near the barn, watching as he eats a humble meal beside the Mandalorian of the children tapping various objects and upon different surfaces to speak to one another. At one point, Corde skips into the barn to tap through the wall, sharing secrets with her brother, and you move to sit beside the Ugnaught, your head beginning to ache from memorizing so many dashes and dots.

“Have you ever had to use this before?” you ask, folding your hands in your lap. Kuiil glances the way of the Mandalorian at your question, and you notice his fingers tapping along his cuirasse pause. “In battle or...otherwise?”

Venka runs from the wall of the barn around to the door to join his sister, ignoring your call to him not to touch anything inside.

“No.” He sounds like he’s frowning, thinking back to some memory he’d rather not bite into. “Though it would have been an advantage if I had.” 

“There are not many Mandalorians to use it with,” Kuiil says, by way of an explanation as he gathers up the small plate he was eating from. “But now you have some to speak it with.”

The Mandalorian watches the Ugnaught amble off, and you smile after him, feeling warmth from the words. When you turn back around, you find the bounty hunter kneeling beside you, and you suck in a breath of surprise at how silent and how quick he is. He doesn’t leave you room when he cups your chin with one hand and lifts the edge of his helmet to his nose, stealing a kiss as soon as you’re both alone. 

Your hands fly up to his helmet, holding the carved arches where his cheeks would be, and you can’t swallow the tiny moan that escapes you when he parts your lips beneath his. With one hand now free, he slides it to rest upon the flesh of your waist, the other drawing up your jaw to cup the back of your neck. You thought you had dreamed the sweetness you’d tasted upon the Razor Crest, and the urgency of his warm mouth leaves you floating the rest of the day.

He exploits his stealth around you more as the week passes. Stealing a kiss behind the barn or the curtain of the sleeping quarters becomes more sought after than water in the desert, always careful of his helmet or the light to protect his face. Your fingers find purchase somewhere new to titillate you-in the frothy, soft curls beneath his helm, on his slim waist beneath his cloak, even once, when the children slept in the mid-afternoon, upon the buckle of his belt to pull him closer when he crowds you behind Kuiil’s hut. 

It becomes distracting in the heat, so you busy yourself with teaching the children things to keep them from idling and to keep yourself from gazing too long at the armored bounty hunter never more than a few steps behind you. Venka becomes an accomplished tailor under your patient instruction, hemming the baby’s robe while Corde assists the Mandalorian in bathing the small child. You marvel at the tenacity the little children have, following their guardian’s shadow and watching him with all the admiration of students.

One evening, they both go out with the Mandalorian so he can teach them how to look for tracks in the desert terrain, and you help Kuiil feed the bluurgs. When they return, stained with dust and dirt and their eyes brighter than crystals, you can’t help but laugh at the tired slump in the warrior’s pauldrons. When you can’t help a giggle, he grabs you around the middle with greedy hands and wipes his dirty helmet against your forehead, smearing dirt all over your face as you shriek with laughter.

You watch him lumber away, tossing Corde over his shoulder without ceremony while she screams giggles of her own, Venka trailing after him as he heads into the hut. Watching them, you hold such a pain within your chest unlike anything else you have ever felt that it brings tears to your eyes.

How could something you have never had before become all you know?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a Translations
> 
> Ner Mesh'la - My Beauty
> 
> Kandosii - "Well done."
> 
> Cyare - Beloved
> 
> Dadita - A code used by Mandalorians, similar to Morse code.


	3. Somewhere Safe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a conversation with Venka and suffering nightmares, you confide in the Mandalorian and Kuiil your worries to keep the children safe. The bounty hunter forms a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again-because I cannot say this often enough-thank you SO much to everyone for your support and kindness!

It takes nearly two weeks for the fathier to regain its health fully, and it is a tumultuous time. There are several days when Kuiil isn’t sure the creature would make it through the night, and oftentimes, both Venka and Corde ask to stay up with him while he nurses the sick animal. You worry for the aftermath of the beast, knowing the two children hold soft feelings for it. They are alike, abused and forgotten, sold and branded. Their unspoken bond brings mist to your vision that you fight to keep back.

You whisper your fears to the Mandalorian one night as you sit up in the bed that the Ugnaught continued to insist you sleep in, brushing your hair out and staring up towards the mesh window of the tent.

The Mandalorian sits on the edge of the bed, removing each piece of his armor with diligence. He finally gets down to his helmet and his thick layers beneath, shucking his boots with a grateful sigh. There are no qualms for him to flop back on the bed beside you, his visor trained on the way your hair falls in waves down to your waist. 

“You worry for them.”

“They have been through something that no child should ever have to endure,” you mutter, letting the brush drop in your lap. You wish you could throw it across the room instead. “More loss, more fear can break your spirit after the things they’ve seen.”

You feel warm, bare hands encircle your arms above your elbows, gently pulling you back to lay down. You go without resistance, glancing to the side, only able to see some of the visor that’s now obscured by waves of your hair. Unbothered, the Mandalorian intones, “We will protect them.”

“Not from everything. Not from everyone,” you murmur, turning to look up at the ceiling, only partially aware of his fingers picking your hair from his helmet. “You have so much already to worry about, and I...I can’t even-”

“Stop it.” His tone is harsh, and it makes you flinch from how demanding he is when his hand squeezes your arm tight. “If it weren’t for you, they’d still be in that hole on Cantonica.”

“If it weren’t for  _ you _ , all three of us would still be there.”

“I’m not arguing about this,” the Mandalorian huffs, letting you go and leaving you cold. “You know how I feel about what you bring to us, what you do for us. Nothing changes that.” 

Us.

You bite your lip, your hand moving across the covers to lace your fingers through his. “I just think sometimes I can do more. I can be more for them,” you whisper, turning your face to look at the outline of his profile in the darkness. His helmet gleams beneath the moonlight. “More for you.”

Suddenly, he turns onto his side, bringing your hand with him so you hug his middle, your body pressed up against his back. You rest your cheek against the curve between his shoulders, listening to him breathe raggedly, and you squeeze him tight.

“You are everything to me.”

The next day, Corde asks if she can try to ride a blurrg. The Mandalorian immediately tells Kuiil he doesn’t like the idea, citing her small stature in comparison to the beat’s giant maw. You listen to them argue back and forth, your interest perking when the bounty hunter mentions how sore he’d been when he was thrown so many times from the foal he had learned with.

You sit in the shade of the stables, a few yards off, practicing Basic Galactic Sign with Venka as the child toddles happily between you and the Mandalorian’s boot. He finally gives in to Kuiil’s reasoning, a sound argument that riding animals will give her an advantage now when she grows older. He marches off to finish binding the dried vegetation that the blurrgs consume for their meal, determined to earn board and bed for all of you by loaning himself as a farmhand to the Ugnaught. You shake your head towards Venka, signing.

_ He cares for you and your sister very much. We both do. _

Venka holds your hand and signs against your palm, since you can’t make out his fingers with your impaired vision, and you feel the motions. His small hands are a bit clumsy, but you incline your head to see what you can.

_ Corde says he is the best warrior in the galaxy. Is she right? _

You smile, your fingers fluttering.

_ I think so. What do you think? _

Venka grins up at you and nods fervently. You reach over and ruffle his hair with no small amount of affection, but you see when his eyes look down at your hands very seriously, slipping deep into thought. You grow concerned when he doesn’t say anything, cupping his chin with your other hand to tilt his face up.

_ I don’t want to leave you. _

Your heart squeezes, eyes widening, and your hands shake as you reply,  _ Who said you are leaving us? _

He sighs softly, shrugging his shoulder.  _ I dreamt it. _

You open your mouth, wanting to ask more, to allay his fears, but a sudden, high pitched scream is followed by a loud thud. Both of you whirl around just as you see one of the blurrgs running to the other side of the pen, away from Corde who is sprawled in the dirt. It’s completely silent, but even you, without full use of your vision, see her entire body wracking with cries.

Before you can even get to your feet, the Mandalorian is sprinting across the yard, his armor doing nothing to slow him when he hops fluidly over the fence and stumbles toward the little girl. The blurrg has turned back to them both as he picks her up, its hind legs digging in the dirt as if to charge. Kuiil climbs through the fence, though, calling to it with wary hands outstretched to calm its energy.

“Stay here,” you murmur, both to Venka and the child, who holds onto the little boy’s arm with a worried expression, ears drooped in fear.

You follow the Mandalorian into the tent, finding him sitting the little girl down on a cushion and murmuring soothingly to her, “It’s alright. Let me see.” You sit beside her, petting her hair from her tear stained face as she leans into you instinctively. She’s sniffling, trying to swallow hiccups that choke her.

“What happened?” you ask, pressing your lips to the crown of her hair as she allows the bounty hunter to inspect her arm.

“A l-lizard spooked it,” she coughs wetly, her nose leaking. You coo, grabbing a cloth napkin from the table and returning to clean her face.

“Not broken, maybe a sprain,” mutters the bounty hunter, moving away to gather the bag you’d brought with you. You repress a sigh, knowing his tone is one of anger, though certainly not at the child. 

“Most people fall when they learn to ride,” you tell her softly, and when she looks up at you with hopeful, teary eyes, you know it's her pride that hurts more than her arm. You had worn that same expression once, when you’d fallen and tripped as a child unable to see. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I don’t want to learn anymore,” Corde whimpers, pressing her face back into your side.

The Mandalorian returns with a bottle, a clean cloth, and a syringe. His gloves have been removed, tucked into his belt, and the golden skin of his hands seem foreign. His tone is uncharacteristically rough, making you frown when he asks, “Why?”

“Because!” she fidgets as he pours some of the solution onto the cloth, cleaning the scrapes where the gravel had torn the delicate skin of her arm. She sniffles, “It’s scary.” 

You nudge the toe of your boot against his calf, earning a tilt of his visor toward you. Inclining your head toward the little girl, you give him a pleading look, and he seems to understand, glancing between you and the child before drawing himself up a little higher. He resumes the rhythmic strokes with the antiseptic solution against her arm.

“I got thrown trying to learn, too.”

Corde peeks up from your side, blinking doubtfully in his direction.

He focuses on his task, pressing the cold numbing agent against every scrape and scratch, sloughing the dirt away. “More times than I can count, but Kuiil helped me. And he can help you too.” He pauses, setting the cloth aside and taking up the needle. He works the syringe into a small bottle and fills it. She watches with contempt, curling into your side when he flicks the barrel to let out air. Leaning his arm against his knee, he looks up at her with a thoughtful air. His voice is much softer now, and you feel your eyes go misty again. “And we are not people who don’t do something just because we’re afraid. Are we?”

Corde stares at him, her eyes moving between his visor and the needle. She takes a deep breath before shaking her head, and she gives him her arm. He makes it quick, inserting the needle and pressing the plunger with a practiced air before wrapping her tiny bicep with gauze to keep it protected. “You’ll feel better in a few minutes,” he murmurs, turning away to clean up the few medical articles. 

You take the sleeve of your dress and gently wipe her salty cheeks again, smiling. “I told you that you are very brave. See how I was right?”

She gives you a smile, sniffling and nodding bashfully. “I want to be brave like you. Like a Mandalorian.” 

The bounty hunter’s hands pause over the medical supplies, glancing towards you as if to gauge your reaction. You are not sure what he expects to see, or what he fears he might, but your heart lifts when the girl smiles up at you.

“I think you are.” 

Corde holds her arm gingerly, standing up. “I’m going to try again,” she declares, her voice still edged with tears but determination setting her chin high.

“Give it a few minutes!” you laugh, watching as she marches out of the tent. You turn to help clean up the mess, but you frown when the Mandalorian swipes it all up, turning and stalking off. You frown, watching his back as he packs the items away, and when he turns, he finds you staring at him.

“What?”

You stand up slow, touching his arm lightly and inclining your head. “She’s fine, you know. Little girls are resilient that way.”

He grunts, stepping around you to rinse his hands at the faucet. “No thanks to Kuiil. Or you, for that matter.” 

Shock radiates through your entire body, and you think you would feel less stunned if he had struck you across the face. When he turns around, drying his hands on a towel, your arms are folded and you’ve schooled your expression into something more serene.

“What are you talking about?”

He throws the towel down, tugging his gloves from his belt with more force than necessary. “You could have said something. He listens to you more than me.”

“Are you...actually blaming me for her getting hurt?”

At his stony silence, your eyes flash, heat prickling beneath your skin in a brilliant flush. “Either you do, and you need someone to blame because of how scared it left you, or you’re angry and wanting to fight someone,” you breathe, your heart beginning to pick up speed in the face of conflict. Your hands flex against your sides when you let them drop, standing your ground. “I won’t be a whipping post, and certainly not because you didn’t like not having control.”

You can see the catch of light on the beskar covering his chest when his breathing begins to pick up, and the two of you stare each other down. In another life, you think he may have intimidated you into a forlorn, misplaced apology, but not now. Not with your heart so full, with everything you have tried so hard to preserve. 

“Fine,” you whisper, turning your face away, only marginally catching the tilt of his visor. You start towards the mouth of the hut. “If you want someone to blame, stay in here and blame yourself.” 

You don’t get far.

A grip of iron latches onto your elbow, tugging you back before you even see him move. You suck in a breath, stumbling as he drags you back behind the partition of the sleeping quarters, and you yelp when your boot catches on one of the rugs. “W-What are you do-”

His fingers grab the lip of his helmet, tearing it off, and in the same movement, his other arm hauls you against the front of his body, and he covers your lips with his own. You lose all the breath in your lungs, your hands hopelessly trying to grab onto something for balance as he seems intent on consuming you whole. It is nothing like the kiss you shared on the Razor Crest, nothing like the stolen kisses around the moisture farm with a touch of tenderness and desperation.

This is hungry, and it is violent.

You aren’t given a moment to see his face, not a chance to adjust to the tight space between him and the wall of the hut as he backs you flush against it, opening your mouth with his lips as if your body is under siege. His helmet hangs from one hand, and he presses it against the curve of your hip, his other cupping the back of your neck. You can’t keep up with the movements, the onslaught of his presence leaving you reeling with vertigo. You settle your hands on either side of his face that is shadowed in the corner of the hut, finding an anchor there, and you gasp when he tears his mouth from yours to bite at your jaw.

“W-What are you do-doing!” you whisper, the scratch of facial hair prickling your skin. The muscles in your legs begin to shake, and there is a fluttering dizziness in your belly that makes you want to pull him closer. Stars, you don’t know if you could handle more of this.

His mouth is hotter than a furnace, his kisses open mouthed and lascivious against your neck, and he stumbles into you, dropping his helmet with a loud thunk against the floor. His shoulders are tighter than a bow string, and you bring shaking fingers up to bury in the fluffy, misshapen curls that are usually hidden. 

“Why are you so  _ soft _ ?” he growls, sounding truly angry at this revelation as he keeps you pinned between his body and the wall. You drink in the humid air between you, eyes closing tight against the throbbing ache building brighter within you. “S-Soft and-and sweet and p-pretty,” he whimpers, teeth sinking harder into the warm flesh of your neck beneath your ear.

You tug his hair, wriggling against him for  _ something _ . You don’t know what you want, what you need in that moment, but you don’t want him to stop. The raw, strangled tone he rasps with, a mixture of fear and joy that heats your blood is buried in your hair when he smothers his lips against the long tresses falling over your shoulder.

“I-It’s alright-” you pant, one hand falling to the back of his neck, and you feel his entire body shudder against you. Your own heart beats hard enough to reverberate against the chest plate pressing against your front, but you know his beats on the other side, too. “It’s alright-”

A scream pierces the otherwise quiet desert air, and suddenly the Mandalorian is gone, swiping his helmet up from the floor and donning it before tearing through the hut to get outside. There’s only a moment’s hesitation on your part before you fall forward after him, running into his back when he stops suddenly in the yard.

Corde screams again, giggling wildly as the blurrg practically hops around the pen with her on its back. The Mandalorian groans so loud his entire helmet seems to vibrate, dropping his head backward. You snort, belly laughs working their way out of you as you lean your temple against his pauldron. You’re dizzy with passion, with relief, with joy, and you’re thankful he’s so solid that you can sink against him and not worry he won’t be the mountain against the sea inside you.

Kuiil ambles his way toward you both, hands folded behind his back and bowing his head. “I will give you my apology. I did not think she would get hurt. She should not have,” he adds, and you can hear the subtle catch in his voice.

“It was an accident,” the Mandalorian says, beating you to the punch and drawing a smile from you. As if his biting words before simply needed to be expelled, to clean his mind from the ugliness a hurt child can bring. He seems to sway forward, as if he feels inclined to touch the Ugnaught on the shoulder in companionable understanding. He chooses not to, letting your gentle touch anchor him to his spot. He swallows hard, his voice hoarse when he adds, “It was no one’s fault.”

It is not an apology to you, but that night when you’re dozing beneath starlight, your back pressed against his, you feel his hand drift to brush over your hip. He whispers his remorse to you, his voice a crack that betrays the desperation you feel in his hand that holds your own. You fall asleep with your fingers entangled with his, but it doesn’t keep a nightmare from plaguing your sleep that night.

Or every night after.

One evening, after the children are put to bed and you and the two men are sitting around the table, you find your eyes growing heavy. You’re working on a second pair of shoes for each of the children, made from the leather that Kuiil had gifted you. The hide of the mudhorn he’d scavenged after the Mandalorian had left his first time on Avarla-7 had provided a good amount of resources. When your needle pierces the skin of your finger for the second time, the bounty hunter heaves a sigh and reaches over to confiscate your work. You shoot him a look of betrayal, scowling, but it is Kuiil who points out, “You aren’t sleeping.”

You ignore both of them as you cross the living space to the faucet, rinsing the blood from your hands. “No, I suppose not.”

“Any reason?” Kuiil asks sagely, glowering suspiciously at the Mandalorian who sits across from his table. The bounty hunter remains stoic and silent, and you clear your throat, hoping it’s dark enough that neither of them notice the bright flush in your cheeks.

“Venka told me something days ago that I cannot put from my mind,” you murmur, wandering back to your seat. You fall into it, rubbing your sore hands together in your lap and blinking hard against the pull of exhaustion. “He is still afraid of being abandoned. I...I don’t know how to assure them that they are safe,” you murmur, the growing ache between your temples making you wince.

Kuiil hums thoughtfully, his hands working a knife over a figure of wood. He told you he was making a toy for the child, and that it would be a surprise to all. “That may not be something you can take from him, my girl.” 

“Surely he can feel safe with us?” you ask weakly, gesturing between you and the silent warrior beside you. “It...it took me some time myself, but I grew more comfortable and secure.”

“It did?” The Mandalorian’s voice is surprised, and you shrug in his direction.

“Perhaps if he could see others like him, he would know it is possible to allow himself happiness,” Kuiil intones, looking down at the wooden figure in his palm. He turns it several times before beginning the process once more.

You lean your face into your hands, feeling just as helpless as the moment the child spoke his fears to you. It’s on your shoulders even as you lay down that evening, Kuiil once again deferring the cot to you by insisting he was to watch over the fathier. If the creature could survive the night, it would be out of danger.

The Mandalorian moves around the small sleeping quarters, and you don’t pay any attention until you notice he’s taking an awfully longer time removing his armor and boots than usual. He’s busy shoving something in his bag, and you can see the hesitation in his frame before he seems to think better of it and remove whatever it is, stuffing it in another pocket.

When he turns around to find you staring, he tenses, moving slowly toward the bed as if you might strike him. You smile his way, and he seems to relax, sitting on the edge of the bed to look at you.

“Do you think the fathier will survive?” you ask softly, your eyes becoming harder and harder to keep open.

His hand, bare and smooth, lays over your own, atop your stomach. “I don’t know.”

You sigh deeply, letting your eyes fall shut. “I hope so. It did not deserve its fate in that place,” you whisper, feeling your eyes begin to sting. “And the children will be heartbroken.” The Mandalorian traces his thumb back and forth over your hand before squeezing your fingers. He says your name, and when you’re too close to sleeping, he gently shakes your hand and repeats it. “Mm?”

“I need to...ask you something.”

His other hand trails tenderly over the outline of your face, picking a stray strand of hair and moving it from your eyes. You open them once again, fighting a yawn. “What is it?”

His helmet is tilted towards you, and you can see just where the moonlight cuts his visor in half, as if he wears another mask of darkness over it. He lays his hand against the side of your neck, warm and comforting. “I want to take the children somewhere...somewhere they will be safe.”

Your eyes float open and closed, watching him as he seems to brave through the words. “I want that, too.”

He nods once, and you imagine he must be licking his lips. His fingers flex atop your hand, and he inhales deeply. “I want to take them to my covert. You and them. To the tribe.”

“W-What?” Your eyes widen when you realize you did, in fact, hear him and are not dreaming. Your other hand cups the wrist that holds your neck, and you slowly sit up in bed, clumsily pawing for him in the shadows. “B-But-can you...do that?”

The Mandalorian takes a measured look at your face, and you wonder what he sees, what he looks for. Or perhaps, what he hopes not to see. His thumb presses just against the pulse point beneath your ear, where he bit you, and you swallow hard at the possessive touch. 

“You are my clan. It is your place, your people, too.”

Your lips tremble, but you don’t feel the threat of tears. No, in fact, you feel electricity flooding your veins, sparking in your fingertips and toes, and you clutch at his wrist and his hand with earnest need, tugging him into the bed beside you. 

“Tell me everything.”

When you finally fall asleep, it’s closer to dawn, and your head is pillowed against the Mandalorian’s chest, soothed by the gentle breathing and heartbeat of his form beneath your cheek. It is the first night in more than a week you do not have a nightmare, and you’re a hair more than annoyed when Corde bursts through the curtained partition, falling on top of you both to declare, excitedly, that the fathier not only survived the night but is nearly recovered completely.

The Mandalorian rolls over, shoving his helmet beneath the shared pillow when the little girl leaves, and growls through the vocoder, “Perhaps we should leave them here.” You slap his back playfully, smirking, before laying back down.

Once fully awake, the idea settles in your mind with no small amount of anxiety. One Mandalorian is intimidating on his own. An entire tribe of them is another beast itself, and you catch yourself wringing your hands. When the bounty hunter tells the children of his intentions, you think, perhaps, they share your feelings.

Venka signs to the Mandalorian, his little face stern and serious.

_ Will they like us? _

He draws the child close, cupping the back of his head to gently bump the brow of his helmet to his. “There is no way they could not.” 

It doubles as a chance for him to turn his bounties in, as well. Nevarro is the seat of Greef Karga, he explains, and though he cannot truly accept guild work, Karga has agreed to smuggle his bounties and pay him for the work under the table. You worry that there will be hunters nearby looking for the child, but the Mandalorian seems confident that will not be the case.

“Many of them were taken out when we left,” he explains, changing the wiggling infant’s clothes upon the cot. The green eared baby giggles and grabs his feet proudly, making the task into a chore for the bounty hunter. “To go back wouldn’t be on their radar for a move we would make.” 

“And you trust Greef Karga not to sell you out?” you ask softly, full of doubt. You’re brushing out Corde’s hair, which is a feat in itself from how tangled it’s been by the desert wind. Braids keep it tamed well enough, but the small child isn’t the most disciplined when it comes to sitting still. You and the Mandalorian have a shared patience, feeding off of one another when it comes to bearing the endearing nuisances.

“He won’t sacrifice his chance at fattening his wallet,” he mutters, looking for the clean outfit you’d sewn for the child. When he turns back, the baby has crawled half way across the bed and is reaching for the mesh window of the hut. He grabs him with a huff. “And as long as we keep our heads down, no one will have a reason to think we are even there.” 

The way he makes it sound so possible is enough to quell some of your fears, but you still find yourself playing with the cuff of your dress, too preoccupied with your thoughts even when you part ways with Kuiil. You kiss his brow, forcing a smile over the curdling in your stomach, and fuss over the child in his pram. You don’t hear what the Ugnaught says to the Mandalorian before you begin your short trek back to the Razor Crest, and that alone is enough for the bounty hunter to see how worried you are.

You busy yourself with the list of pre-flight checks, the motions familiar and comforting to you. Keeping your hands busy is something that comes naturally, and you’re only dimly aware of the noises in the hull where the Mandalorian is busy ensuring all three children have a proper meal before they sleep. When you’re sure that everything is ready for take off, adjusting the coordinate settings to Nevarro (for he’d shown you, after all, how to locate the pre-programmed destinations), you sit back in the pilot’s chair and close your eyes.

It isn’t the bounty hunters that worry you. It isn’t the threat of the Empire, either.

No, your fears are much simpler: you are to meet his tribe.

And you want to be good enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Mando'a Translations
> 
> Kandosii - Well done
> 
> Gar serim, ad'ika - "That's it, little one."
> 
> Cyare - Beloved
> 
> Ori'haat - "It's the truth, I swear it."
> 
> Ka'ra - stars - ancient Mandalorian myth - ruling council of fallen kings
> 
> Ner cyra'ika - "My darling"
> 
> Mirjahaal - peace of mind, healing, general term for emotional well-being especially after a trauma or bereavement
> 
> Mesh'la - Beautiful


End file.
